


The Kenny Situation

by Whispering_Sumire



Series: TW Bingo♘ [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (if you squint), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Curses, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Erica Reyes Ships It, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Group Hugs, Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Peter Ships It, Puppy Piles, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles is Kenny, The Alpha Pack aren't assholes, Witch Curses, except not really, teen wolf bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: He hears the grate of Erica sliding the window open, hears her call after the homeless man, muttering far off now, "Hey! You killed Stiles!"She sounds vaguely annoyed more than anything.Derek wants to howl with the agony he's in."You bastard!" Isaac chimes from somewhere deeper in the Loft.Derek feels sick.He rocks the body in his arms, holds the hand in his over the wound, shakes with sobs he doesn't let free, and wonders how this was the thing who got the boy who runs with wolves? How was it just another meaningless act of violence? How is that fair?Why doesn't anyone seem tocare?[Or: The one where Stiles gets cursed by witches, keeps dying and coming back to life, and the only one even vaguely cognizant of this is Derek.]





	The Kenny Situation

Fucking _Stiles_.

Stiles who isn't even a part of his fucking Pack, but is always, always the clever one. Even with the Alpha Pack already lurking on their borders, of course, of _course_ they'd garner the attention of a homicidal Coven. And, of course, Stiles would find out as easy as anything who they were and what they were doing and how, theoretically, to stop them, of course he would be ignored by Scott who can't even imagine the murders were done for supernatural reasons, of course he would then come to Derek with all the research and information whilst second-guessing himself the whole time even as he demands something be done.

("You're the Alpha in the house, dude- you got all your Betas back, you, unwittingly and forcible and I'm still very sorry about that, helped take Gerard down. It's all coming up Derek! And I may be wrong, I mean, everyone else thinks I'm wrong, Scott, Dad, whatever. Point is, you're the Supernatural go-to, and if I'm right about this, then these witches? They'll be gunning for you. It's your territory, _protect it_!")

He wasn't wrong.

He also, unfortunately, decided to come with them to evaluate the threat, whether they liked it or not. Although, to be fair, Jackson only objected to it because of his innate dislike of the boy, Erica had laughed and accepted it readily, Boyd had been as stoic as ever (Erica and Boyd's relationship with Stiles was a little different after their time held captive by Gerard, Derek assumes it has something to do with him freeing them, but none of the three teenagers have ever really disclosed more than the two 'were's getting captured and the human saving their asses), Isaac had mostly been a douche about it but hadn't seemed to care one way or another, Peter had just snarked and... _leered_.

Derek was the only one _truly_ against it.

He understood Stiles' tenacity, loyalty, and bravery, but he was still _human_ , and that loyalty made the bare minimum of sense considering he wasn't even _Pack_. Still, with a defiant glare and a stuck out chin he declared he not only needed to see if he was right about this, but make sure none of them got killed following up on something _he_ asked them to.

The idiot made no sense.

To make matters worse, as soon as they found the hideout ("An abandoned warehouse? Seriously? Of all the possible clich-" "Shut up, Stiles."), they were ambushed. A coven of seven against a Pack of five (Peter had claimed zombie weakness, yet again, and ditched) and a wayward human.

They weren't screwed necessarily, the coven had only managed two sacrifices, and their power wasn't so extreme as to kill them all right off the bat, and they were arrogant, which gave the wolves an advantage. The hardship was, though, despite the fact that Stiles had surreptitiously armed himself with a gun (he had surprisingly good aim, unless he was trying to _kill_ , not maim, in which case...), that the witches immediately zeroed in on him. Calling him a Spark, as Deaton had once, and trying to grab him among the chaos of the battle.

Derek did his best to protect him, Erica and Boyd even flanking Stiles' sides with low, threatening growls in their throats. But a spell still managed to get past them. Or, more accurately, Stiles grabbed Erica and shoved her behind him whilst shooting the witch who had thrown the spell down. She fell with a roar of outrage, screaming at the top of her lungs that a 'blaenatem' had hit the _Spark_ instead of a wolf while she cried tears of frustration.

Immediately after that everything went fuzzy, hazy memories of bloodshed and gore and screaming and trying to keep Stiles out of the line of fucking fire.

By the end of it, every single witch was down, three by gunshot wounds and bloodloss, four by werewolves and general unconsciousness. Some of his Pack were still healing from wounds or spells that were quickly wearing off without their castor to uphold them, but mostly, everyone had made it out okay.

"So... What do we do now?" Stiles asks, surveying the damage, "I mean, we can't really hand them over to the authorities, can we?"

"I'll deal with them," Derek tells him, gruffly, barely even hiding the fact that he's scenting the air for Stiles' flavor of blood and pain.

"Yeah, but _how_? I mean, use your _words_ Sourwolf. You're not gonna kill them are you? Because. Well. I guess that would work, actually, but it would also suck. In general-" he waves his arms around, for emphasis or punctuation or what Derek doesn't know- "suckiness fashion."

"I'm not gonna kill them, Stiles."

Some Pack-members seem surprised by this, Jackson seems a little disbelieving, but he heard the truth in the heartbeat, so it doesn't matter.

"Really? Then, seriously, what're you gon-" his words are cut off with a choked noise of surprise when a witch, who had been feigning unconsciousness, rises, pulls him back toward her by the throat, and reaches around to stab him in the heart.

"No one survives blaenatam." She declares, Stiles' eyes go wide and terrified for one second before steadily losing their fire, their laughter, their life.

All sun-soaked amber bright whiskey-burn steadily darkening until they crumple into the light golden-brown death of fallen leaves in autumn. His smell, over the blood and carnage of the room, all stress and anticipation, freshly baked bread, melting butter, honey, and medicine-plastic, churns and becomes bitter-acrid terror-agony, and then nothingness as it dissipates amongst the strong tang of blood and bile and sage that has accumulated here.

His heartbeat lasts three seconds after the stab, three time-slowed, moment-saturated, painful seconds where it goes from hummingbird fast to thready thump to an exhaustive absence of sound. A horrifying sort of _nothing_ that's cloying and intense in Derek's ears, makes him deaf and numb to everything else as he rushes forward to catch Stiles, his body, when the witch drops it.

He's vaguely aware of someone screaming something about bastards, and the murderous witch being killed in her own right before she has a chance to make any more of a stand.

But it doesn't matter.

Stiles is gone.

* * *

He really had meant it when he said he wasn't going to kill them, he may not trust Peter much but his Uncle had been his mother's Left Hand, it had been part of his job to have powerful contacts among every circle. It would've been the matter of a text to have the seven witches transported to New Orleans to face the High Council and be dealt with as they should.

That plan turned to dust the moment he felt Stiles, limp and lifeless and bloody, in his arms.

Seven bodies scattered throughout the woods, skin and meat left flayed and abandoned for animals and scavengers and the like, bones burnt to ash and thrown into the river.

Stiles... left where he was with an anonymous tip to the Sheriff's department because what else were they to do?

It doesn't really strike him until he's already gone to bed that none of his Betas were or are reacting to this as strongly as he thought they might, there is no intense grief or mourning throughout the Bonds from anyone but him, they all feel as they would, victorious after a fraught battle, if their friend hadn't died in front of their very eyes, it makes little to no sense, but he can barely breathe, now, can't think past the ice-cold in his veins.

Stiles.

 _Stiles_ is gone.

His wolf screams with it.

* * *

Stiles paces his room chewing on the pad of his thumb and running a hand through his hair, wondering how the hell he even woke up this morning, in his bed, alive, even with the phantom pain of a blade running through his heart.

But his body's fine, everyone else seems fine. He called Erica as soon as he woke up, and she just said he was badass with the gun yesterday, but she didn't mention any stabby-witchy-crazy-you-should-be-dead-right-now things. The fight, though, that still happened. He was right about the witches, and they took down the coven responsible for the murders, so, _yay_. Not so yay? The fact that he hadn't _survived_ that.

He'd seen Derek's constipated-horrified possibly teary-eyed face and then he'd _died_.

He knows, he remembers.

So how come nobody else does?

How is he even alive?

And what was that word she'd said?

Oh, right: Blaenatam.

Time to steal from Deaton, and possibly Peter, again.

Google has no reference for obscure possible death negating spells, no it does not.

* * *

Derek didn't get much sleep last night, haunted as he was by visions of Stiles' eyes, empty and dark and desolate and _gone_. Just fucking gone.

And now he's staring at the contents of his freezer. Curly fries and waffles and something meaty and gorgeous in tupperware that Stiles pre-made, all things that Derek hadn't even noticed migrating into his freezer. There are things in the fridge, too, and cupboards. The coffee he keeps is an amalgamation of Stiles and Peter's favorites because they're the only two who really drink it, he also has at least a dozen boxes of caffeinated sweet iced tea because it 'helps me think, dude, lay off the Stiles.'

Twizzlers and cookies (both homemade and storebought) and obscure polish candies, an extra laptop and cell phone charger, pages upon pages of notes.

He's not even Pack, how is it possible for him to leave so much behind? Was it all just a build-up from the days he spent at the Loft researching? Which begs the question, why did he do that research here? Not with Scott, or Lydia, even, but _here_.

When did it start? Why?

A hummingbird heart enters the peripheral of his hearing, and his own heart threatens to stop because, no. Just no. It's not possible.

It's coming closer.

 _He's_ coming closer.

And Derek wants to know but at the same time he's petrified because it's _not possible_.

* * *

Stiles is at the elevator just barely having pressed the button when he hears thundering footsteps, paired with a couple of jumps from the sound of it. Curious, he goes to the bottom of the stairs only to see Derek come rushing down, his steps stuttering to a halt when his eyes, Alpha red, light on Stiles.

"Um, hey? You okay, man? You look a little-" he gestures to his own face and makes a faux-wolfy-snarl.

Derek looks... _lost_. Wide-eyed and lost in a way Stiles has never seen him.

"Stiles?" He breathes faintly, before so obviously scenting the air that Stiles would make some indignant noise of protest if it weren't obvious that Derek, he can't even help himself. And with a high pitched whine, actual, animal, whine, Derek _jumps_ the last twelve steps.

"Woah," and Stiles would follow that up, he would, with some sort of snarking joke about that totally un _needed_ move, except now he's got an Alpha werewolf all up in his personal space, getting closer, "Derek?"

He's never seen the man's eyes do that, they're still glowing vermillion but they're so _full_ , honest and defenseless and cracked open so Stiles can see the soul behind the walls Derek has _always_ kept up. God, he looks like someone flayed him, shredded every muscle and left him this vulnerable, torn apart, approximation of living.

Stiles swallows as Derek takes another step towards him, their chests almost flush now. A clawed hand reaches up and gently, so, so gently, cups his cheek, Derek searching his face with _those eyes_ , Stiles can barely keep himself breathing just looking at them because suddenly it's all put into stark relief, how much Derek has _lost_.

And Stiles has really been an idiot this whole time, hasn't he? Losing a Pack- _member_ is like losing a _limb_. Derek lost 21 of them and then Laura and had to kill Peter himself. And Stiles knew that, it's part of the reason...

But it's not the same, it's not the same as seeing it bare and broken and naked like this. He shouldn't be allowed this glimpse, he has done _nothing_ to deserve it.

And maybe it's because he doesn't want to see anymore, maybe it's that his brain and his heart are both too full and too frayed right now, but when Derek's hand caresses down his cheek to his jaw, when a clawed finger tenderly moves his head to the side just so, he lets it, goes with it, doesn't even care he's baring his throat to a wolf right now, can't bring himself to pull away.

Derek, as soon as Stiles' neck is arched the right way, bends down, leans into the space between them, what little there is left, and snuffles a breath right underneath Stiles' ear before making the most pitiful fucking whimper and just... nuzzling there, breathing and rubbing his face in the crook of Stiles' neck.

"You're scent marking me," Stiles breathes, just a little awed, letting his head fall further, arching into it, kind of adoring the feel of stubble and damp-hot breath.

 _"Stiles._ "

Derek's voice catches on the name, said with such desperation that Stiles doesn't even try to stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man's back.

"Shh, hey, I'm okay, I'm-" and Derek's putting his arms around him too, curling into him, protective and childish all at once, just a little crushing but in a good way, in a way that makes him never want to leave these arms- "Jesus, Derek. You remember, don't you? Me... dying?"

"Yeah."

A slightly self-deprecating laugh, "No one else does."

Derek doesn't seem to give a shit about anyone else right now, too caught up in just holding him, so Stiles lets it go, murmurs sweet, small, consoling sorts of things.

He wouldn't have thought Derek would be this broken up over him dying. But knowing that he isn't in this alone, at least? It helps.

Just a little.

It helps.

* * *

Stiles smells _good_ , and warm and alive.

Like a gorgeous bakery and home and sleep and _life_.

Derek doesn't know _how_ , barely wants to question it even as he makes himself let Stiles go so the boy can go up the elevator and beg some tomes off of Peter. He understands they have to figure this out because _not_ knowing will always be worse than knowing.

Derek's wolf is simple, though, and Stiles smells like heaven-safe, so Derek lets his instincts ride for the moment and just stays as _near_ as the boy will allow. And considering the fact that Stiles seems oddly pliable, and is only welcoming where he might've been uncomfortable before, Derek basically stays plastered to his side.

Peter is obviously intrigued, asks about the closeness once with a leer and... Derek doesn't see the expression Stiles gives Peter, but it's surprising and threatening enough for the older man to back off, which is. Nice.

* * *

Stiles researches at the Loft, as he usually does, but right now it's less because it'll be hard to explain to his dad, less because he still wants to keep an eye on Erica and Boyd after the whole Gerard thing. More because of the Alpha clinging to him half-desperate, half-feral. The idiot almost bit Erica's head off for getting too close, almost clawed Isaac's hand into smithereens for trying to steal a piece of Stiles' pizza.

And Stiles guesses he gets it, somewhat, because maybe they're not friends or Pack, but they're close enough, apparently, for the loss to hurt.

And Derek has been through so many losses.

Besides, it's, maybe, (read: _extremely_ ) adorable and endearing.

Sourwolf being sweet, though the reasons may be somewhat bitter. There's a joke in that somewhere. When he says so out loud Derek half chokes on a laugh and Stiles feels inordinately proud of himself.

* * *

The tomes and ancient scrolls in butchered Arabic and Romanian bring up... nothing. Nothing, and it sucks, but he'll just have to get back to it because his dad's going to be home any minute and he's already running late as it is.

He really shouldn't be surprised when Derek insists on walking him to his car, but he is, and by the looks on his Beta's faces (with the exception of Peter who just smirks as he turns the page in his own book), they are too.

* * *

It happens fast, within the space of time it takes Derek to recognize the threat- a homeless man who often lurks in the alley beside the loft who managed, somehow, to get a gun- and growl at it threateningly, Stiles has already gotten an egregious gun shot wound in his gut and the homeless man is screaming about monsters as he peals away, terrified.

"Stiles!" Derek barks, already sliding to his knees to catch the boy's weight in his arms, again.

 _Again_.

Blood, sticky-wet and scorching squelches against the fabric of Stiles' shirt when Derek presses his hand against the wound, Stiles grimaces and more blood mingled with saliva bubbles up as he groans, coughs, and his mouth is stained red. It eerily and grotesquely reminds Derek of careless days in the backyard, stained with the meaty juice of berries from their garden when he was young, so young.

"Ugh, I'll be-" Stiles strains, huffs some approximation of a laugh, shakes his head. "No, I won't be fine, heh, _fuck_."

"Stiles," Derek's trying to hold it together here, he really is.

Stiles looks up at him, murky-muddied-honey eyes drowned in pain and fear and, like _always_ , bravery. That spark of willfulness that makes him the _clever one_ , and human. So human it _aches_. His hand covers Derek's own, laces their fingers together, painting moon-silk peppered with cinnamon and lightly tanned pale skin with maroon, blood running in rivers down the boy's side.

"You'll be okay Derek, alright?" He says, and why? Why is he worrying about _him_? "I'm _not_ Pack, you won't even feel it. Just another human, you know? Another mildly suspicious death in Beacon Hills, hey, can't believe it's not a _mountain lion_ this time!" Stiles jokes with a blood-soaked wretched sort of laugh. Derek manages a weak facsimile of a smile as he presses harder.

He's been trying to take the pain, but there's nothing to take.

"I'm not... I don't know if coming back _twice_ is in the cards. So." "Stiles-" "Take care of my dad? And Scotty, I know he's an-" A cough, blood spluttering up, ignored as he continues- "ass, he's an ass, but he's my. My brother. I _trust you_." And how? When? He never did anything to deserve something so _profound_. "So take care of 'em."

Derek leans forward, closes his eyes against the burn of tears, and kisses Stiles on the temple just as his heartbeat begins to slow, "Okay, promise."

Stiles squeezes his hand, and just like that, he's gone again. Derek's head pounds, he feels an onslaught of emotions he'd thought he'd locked away after the fire and he shakes under the weight of them.

He hears the grate of Erica sliding the window open, hears her call after the homeless man, muttering far off now, "Hey! You killed Stiles!"

She sounds vaguely annoyed more than anything.

Derek wants to howl with the agony he's in.

"You bastard!" Isaac chimes from somewhere deeper in the Loft.

Derek feels sick.

He rocks the body in his arms, holds the hand in his over the wound, shakes with sobs he doesn't let free, and wonders how this was the thing who got the boy who runs with wolves? How was it just another meaningless act of violence? How is that fair?

Why doesn't anyone seem to _care_?

* * *

Stiles wakes up again, in his bed, no one seeming to know he'd just gotten _shot_ last night.

Well, maybe Derek remembers, again?

And wouldn't that just suck? A man he only ever knew as stoic and strong and completely divorced of all emotion except anger had been vulnerable with him, hurt by another loss, too surprised by the return to tuck himself away again, and Stiles is almost positive he cried. Holding hands over the wound that was killing him Derek had choked on a small little laugh and let tears fall, he'd looked so fucking hurt, and then he'd squeezed his eyes shut tight, left a lingering kiss on his forehead, and promised with a wavering, distraught sort of voice.

Stiles' temple still tingles with the afterglow of warmth.

He swallows thickly against the sudden lump in his throat. Is this part of the spell too? Is he going to die every single day? Jesus.

He needs to _fix_ this, get it sorted, figure out why Derek is the only other one affected.

He hears the snick and lurches for the window, wrenching it up with the help of a clawed hand, and then there's a werewolf on top of him. Derek somehow manages to wrap his arms around Stiles in a way that keeps him from hurting himself when they hit the floor, but it doesn't stop the harsh exhale that leaves Stiles because, "Dude, you're heavy."

Derek doesn't say anything, just holds him as close as gravity will allow and presses his face into the crook of Stiles' neck, nosing his jaw, breathing harsh, uncontrolled breaths. He's _trembling_ all over, small little whines escaping him every other minute.

He definitely remembers, Stiles thinks, letting his hands travel to shoulder blades, fisting them into the soft black henley Derek is wearing.

"Hey, shh, it's..." But it's _not_ this is so far from okay. "I'm here, I've got you. Shh, hush. Derek."

"Why?"

"What?"

Derek swallows with a click, takes a deep, ragged breath, noses up and down his jaw, nuzzles his cheek against the spot, "You said you trusted me," he says, voice rough and raw and teased painful around the edges, "why?"

"We save each other's lives," Stiles says without hesitation, and maybe it's not that simple, but it also kind of is, "and you're a good man."

Derek sucks in a sharp breath, he holds it for a long, long moment, and then he sighs, an awful, cracking, broken sort of thing.

"Tell me that isn't going to happen again."

"I wish I could, but... I'm starting to get the feeling this is part of the spell- _curse_ , Derek, I was cursed. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern- so if I die again today-" a low subvocal growl erupts, somehow tremulous even in its saw-shred violence- "If I die again today, and I wake up in my bed tomorrow and no one remembers but _you_ , Derek, what does that mean?"

Derek's arms wrap tighter, the growl increases, but he says nothing.

"It means that dying? Is a part of this, and _this_ , it doesn't stop until we break the curse. So, that's what we do, alright? We find out what blaenatem means, figure out what this curse is _doing_ to me, and then we fix it."

Derek literally, _literally_ , cuddles in deeper, nuzzles, and Stiles might be getting beard burn but it actually feels unexpectedly good, and he is surprisingly okay with that.

"Or we could just- we could just snuggle?"

* * *

It's been around thirty minutes since the werewolf tumbled into him, and this position? Stiles is a healthy teenaged boy, and Derek is extremely, unlawfully gorgeous. He's like one of those statues of the greek gods, Michaelangelo would weep, he's sure.

Derek, this close, and still scenting as he is, can probably smell the beginnings of arousal, but he just nuzzles in, doesn't make any move to leave him.

Stiles half-wonders what this means for his oddly besotted fascination with Lydia, but in all honesty, with all of the supernatural crazy going on he hasn't had much time to think about her like that in a while. She helped raise Peter from the dead and she's gotten _involved_ , what with saving Jackson and figuring out how to have a werewolf for a boyfriend on top of everything else.

And she _loves_ him, and Jackson? He is a douche-canoe, sure, but there's something sort of beautiful about that, about the way they are together, and it's gotten so much more profound since. Stiles finds himself not wanting to ruin it.

He still loves Lydia, he thinks he always will, but it's different now, a different flavor.

And here's Derek, all marble and oak hair and stubble, on top of him, pinning him down, slotted in between his legs.

Derek inhales deep and Stiles has no idea what he smells but he just starts to sort of... rumble? Only it's a little musical?

"Dude," Stiles breathes in delight, awed and transfixed as he lets his hand travel up into Derek's hair, scraping at his scalp, the sound only intensifies, "are you _purring_?"

Derek just hums, keeps snuffling against the side of his neck, and that? It's starting to feel _really_ good, the sound and the vibrations and the scrape of stubble against his skin.

"Derek," Stiles manages in a desperate little whimper, and the man above him actually _moans_ , his hips moving down just the slightest bit, a tiny, minute thrust.

" _Fuck,_ are we actually doing this?"

Derek takes another deep breath, leaves a kiss right underneath his jaw and says, voice deeper and more gravelly than he's ever heard it, "Do you want to?"

"Yes, fuck yes. All of the yes, please, yeah." Stiles doesn't even care how desperate he sounds, because now Derek is grinding down slow and hard and fucking delicious, "Uhn, y-you? You definitely want this too, right? Want-want me?"

Yeah, he's a little insecure, sue him.

Derek's answer though, is maybe the most surprising thing he's ever heard.

"Always," and he sounds a little wrecked, "I always want you, Stiles."

Then he pulls back a little, shocked by his own admission, but Stiles can't be having with that, not right now, not when he _needs_ every inch of Derek pressed up against him, so he wraps his arms around the 'were's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It's uncoordinated, teeth-clacking clumsy at first, and then Derek moves just so, his hips rocking against Stiles' again, and when Stiles gasps Derek just dives.

Wet-warm, togue-slick, deep slide, and oh. Derek tastes like flower-wine and snow and olives and something thicker, more intoxicating, that's just _Derek_. Stiles moans into the kiss, tantalizing and disarming and wonderous.

His leg worms its way between Derek's, providing more of the friction they _need_ , and shit. This is definitely going to be over fast.

"Mmn," Stiles gasps as Derek sucks on his bottom lip, then leaves his mouth to nibble half-desperately at Stiles' pulse point, both of their thrusts stuttering and harsh because, god, it's not just him, Derek's close too. Nips of teeth against his flesh send white-hot sparks down to the coil of warmth building in his rock-hard dick and Stiles whimpers, moans, whines.

"It's okay," he groans, because he can _feel_ Derek holding himself back, and he _doesn't want him to_. "Don't break the skin, but, _please_. Jesus, fuck, just _bite_ me!"

Derek shakes, his hips crash down with a shudder as his teeth sink in a little further and he _sucks_ , bites, laves at the skin there until the tingle-spark is a flame and the feeling makes Stiles arch and writhe and lose himself.

He comes embarrassingly quickly after that, Derek still rutting against him, not going over the edge until Stiles breathes, boldly, in his ear, "C'mon, Der, come for me."

Stiles kisses him, sound and happy, as he comes down, rubs his back through it, smiles into the kiss, deepens it. And Derek lets him, both of them exploring each other like that for awhile until the sticky mess in Stiles' pants becomes too much to bear.

"You wanna shower first, shower last, shower together?"

Derek huffs a laugh at that, noses at Stiles' cheek, lifts himself off of him.

"You first."

"Okay. Hey, Derek?"

"What is it, Stiles?"

"That wasn't just- I mean, heat of the moment, one time, never meant it to happen won't ever happen again, it wasn't like that, right?"

"No."

"And- and we can figure the rest of it out later? Like, the _us_ part of it?"

"Yes, Stiles. Go take your shower."

Stiles beams at him.

"Cool."

* * *

Derek closes his eyes to just listen, the sound of Stiles' heartbeat and flailing the most beautiful reassuring thing he's ever heard. The scent of Stiles' arousal, melting butter warmth and fresh sugar cookies still lingers heavy around the room, mingled with his own to make it something even more intoxicating.

He had no idea that would happen, had no idea he'd wanted it that bad. But it makes some sense, now, why the deaths hit him so hard. He admires Stiles, likes him despite how aggravating he is sometimes, in fact, the only reason he can be so irritating is because he so easily gets under Derek's skin.

Pushes him, pulls him, is loyal to a fault even when he _barely knows you_. Loyal and brave and tenacious even more so when he does, when he trusts and likes the person he's putting his life on the line for.

Jesus, Derek is already so far gone.

 _Always,_ he'd said, and maybe that was true, maybe he really has always wanted Stiles. As a friend, maybe, as Pack, definitely, as this? A lover, a partner, a Mate?

Yes. Yeah. He wants that, he really actually does.

And, surprisingly, not knowing if Stiles is going to live through the day? It makes it impossible to ignore these feelings, impossible to worry at whether this love will be doomed and horrible and something dangerous for them both because it already is. It already was, would continue to be even without them being together.

And he _wants this_. And he might lose it, but he doesn't even care anymore.

He is nothing if not a selfish man, selfish enough to have loved Kate, to have made a Pack amidst a den of Hunters when he didn't even half know what he was doing.

Selfish enough to keep Stiles for as long as he fucking can?

Probably.

* * *

After Derek's shower, and subsequent borrowing of the Sheriff's sweatpants, he finds Stiles cooking something foreign and mouthwatering.

"Smells good," he comments, hooking his chin on the top of Stiles' head.

He can hear the grin in Stiles' voice when he says, "Couldn't have my first time without borscht."

Derek hums, maybe in agreement, maybe in question, he doesn't know. Just. What does borscht have to do anything?

But it tastes as good as it smells, and being with Stiles, living, breathing, clever, miraculous Stiles, is one of the best things, so he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.

* * *

The end of the day brings with it the Sheriff, and it's only then that Derek realizes they've spent the whole day here, no researching, just. Watching superhero movies and _spending time together_. He wonders if this is a calculated move by Stiles, to avoid danger for the day, keep it _coincidence_ instead of _pattern_.

He agrees wholeheartedly either way.

When he hears John Stilinski's cruiser coming down the road he informs Stiles and makes to leave, but Stiles just shoves him back down and tells him he's staying for dinner. Derek is... dubious, about that, but he isn't about to argue.

When John comes inside, he's just as dubious.

"Derek... Hale? What are you doing here?"

"Derek," Stiles says cooly, almost defiantly, "show him."

"Are you sure?"

"After the past two days? Yes, now, do the- the thing-" he makes claws and a grossly exaggerated face, Derek snorts.

Then he stands, faces the Sheriff, and he shows him.

The gun is out of his holster and pointed in a millisecond, "What the-"

"Werewolves dad, it's not drugs, and it's not any shady stuff, well, it's _supernaturally_ shady stuff."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Stiles."

"Yep," pop of the p, "we maybe need to talk."

* * *

"So, let me get this straight. Peter was a Beta, but the fire left him incapacitated and feral, and in a bout of insanity (which none of us entirely believe) he killed Laura, who had inherited Alpha powers from Talia after the fire."

"Yes." Derek agrees.

"Then, as a newly anointed Alpha, he bit Scott during your little _incredibly stupid_ escapade into the woods."

"Yep." Stiles agrees, obnoxiously popping that stupid fucking p.

"Scott became a werewolf, and you went on that study tangent, I remember that, to help him figure it out."

"And then," Stiles picks up, because he can't stay quiet for more than five minutes, "Sourwolf here was all lurky and stuff and we _totally innocently_ misunderstood."

"And you made me arrest a grieving man for murder?"

Derek's surprised at how offended the Sheriff seems for him, and Stiles, he even has the decency to look chagrined.

"Yeaaaahhhh, sorry about that, by the way, to both of you."

"It's okay," Derek tells him immediately, because it is, he didn't know, and Derek? Well, Derek didn't use his words. Stiles smiles up at him a little sheepishly.

"No. It's not, but it will be," John amends, Stiles bobs his head in a loose nod. "Moving on. A lot of crazy hunters versus werewolves things happened, you helped Scott figure it all out, including helping him find his Anchor which is part of the only reason he probably managed the full moon without the help Derek offered-" Stiles makes a slightly indignant defensive noise, because _Scott_ \- "Oh, don't give me that, you know I'm right."

Stiles subsides, because yes, yes he is.

"Peter went after everyone behind the fires, then, final showdown, a bunch of teenagers, a woman who burned a family alive and _tortured_ a man, a psychopathic killer, and- and a molotov cocktail, really, Stiles? You set a man who'd claimed to have been burning and trapped inside of his mind for _six years_ on _fire_?"

"Yeah, I still feel shitty about that."

"Language." John admonishes lightly.

"Really?" Derek feels the need to ask.

"Well, yeah, I mean. The Laura thing, the Scott thing, those were horrible, evil, terrible things to do. And he's a smarmy manipulative slimy sort of guy on the best days, but seriously? He went through _hell_ , and- no offense- but he went through it _alone_." Derek flinches, Stiles grips his shoulder, "And if I had been him? I would've done the same to all the people who hurt my family," he glances at his father, and though the Sheriff doesn't seem surprised by the ice that enters Stiles' eyes, Derek is. It chills him to the bone. "Worse."

John nods, Derek swallows.

"Okay, so he died, Derek killed him, and in so doing became the Alpha."

Derek flashes his eyes, and gives a noise that could pass for approval, Stiles' hand stays resting on his shoulder.

"Got it. Then, Lydia, who Peter had bitten, went steadily crazy until Peter used whatever essence he left inside of her to, what, resurrect himself?"

"Yeah. The spell he used was actually really, _really_ interest-"

"You know what spell he used?"

"How else did you think I found out Lydia was a Banshee?"

"Lydia's a Banshee?" the Sheriff asks faintly, then he shakes himself out of it, "Nevermind, later. Later. Okay." Deep breath. "The three deaths that happened this summer were the result of a coven of homicidal witches?"

"Yep."

"And, because of the whole Alpha transference thing, you now have an Alpha Pack encroaching on your territory to, what? Test your Pack?"

"Yes."

"And who is all that again, the Kanima thing still.... really confuses me."

"Jackson got better," Stiles says helpfully. Derek levels him with a look, he sighs and quiets.

"I have five Betas-" "Six." Stiles tells him, Derek is wary, "Six?"

"Well, me, duh."

"You?" Derek asks faintly, "But you're in Scott's Pack."

"Scott's an Omega, and he should've joined your Pack sooner. Should've joined as soon as he found out that all of our assumptions were, like, stupid wrong, dude. And we may be brothers but... Scott's been kind of. Ever since Allison, you know? He just, he doesn't _listen_ to me anymore, he doesn't notice when- you know what, it doesn't even matter. You. Are my Alpha."

And just like that the Pack Bond slides into place, Derek feels it, a thrumming echo of loud emotions and a cacophony of thoughts, neverending, just as fast as his hummingbird heart. Derek's eyes flash at the boy, and Stiles' eyes... they flash _back_. Lavender and sparkling, soft and a sweep of catching light like sun reflected on water or flower petals dipped in honey.

Then they're whiskey-burn amber again. Stiles blinks.

"Woah," the boy says dazedly, and Derek can feel the tug on the bond, like Stiles is- is _playing_ with it.

"Does that- I thought you were human, still? Is that normal?"

"Spark," Stiles, clever, always catching on faster than any of them, "I'm human but I have a Spark. That's what that was, right? And- and-" another tug, then something Derek can't quite explain, like he's twirling his fingers into it while he squeezes Derek's shoulder, "That's the Pack-Bond, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Derek breathes.

"Spark?" John questions, "That's what let you make the mountain ash circle?"

Only, neither of them has a chance to answer that because suddenly Stiles' eyes go wide, and he's clutching his throat, choking on _nothing_ at all.

"Stiles," Derek hisses, feeling fear and something like resignation travel through them before Stiles pulls back, shuts him out with whatever strength he has left, and Derek can almost _hear_ him saying; _'I don't want you to feel me die.'_

"Sti-" he chokes on the word- "les."

The boy uses his hold on Derek's shoulder to collide into him, and Derek's arms go automatically around him. Stiles makes an awful, terrible, choking moaning sound, and then the Bond is _gone_ , and Stiles is _limp_ in his arms.

"Hum," the Sheriff, who should be _anything but_ calm and unimpressed by this, says, "They killed Stiles... Bastards."

Derek throws a horrified look his way, and suddenly the man is as uninterested as anything.

And he realizes, then, that this must be part of the curse too. But he doesn't _care_.

Because this fucking _hurts_.

* * *

Stiles awakes in his bed with a gasp, and then a coughing fit because his lungs honestly hadn't been prepared for that much air. As his breathing calms down he notices the steel bars of muscle holding him, one around his chest, curling diagonally up to his shoulder, the other around his waist, both in a vice grip pulling him back against Derek's chest. The older man already nuzzling the side of his throat from behind.

And he can _feel_ through his bond with him, so much stronger than the distant hums of the cluster that he assumes is the other Beta's, a drowning riptide of grief and relief and need and terror and so, so small he can barely taste the ghost of it on his tongue, hope.

"Jesus," he begins, for lack of anything better, this is, after all, the third time he's died, "do all your Beta's feel this?"

"No. I put up- walls, like you did last night. But. I can't- not with you- not when-"

"No, yeah, I get it." So much pain, so much sorrow, nearly as suffocating as whatever strangled him to death last night, he wonders if that's going to happen every time no external force rips him from this world until the curse breaks.

"Hey, hey," he tugs Derek's arm until it loosens enough for him to turn so that they're both laying on their sides, facing each other, "I'm alive. I _am_."

"Not for long," Derek says, and it sounds like it fucking killed him to say it, cut him apart even more, and it feels that way too, despite however blank Derek is keeping his face. Stiles whimpers quietly.

"Der," he whines, and then, because he literally can't not, he kisses him, deep and full of regret and melancholy and desperation, Derek kisses back, just as desperate, just as terrified.

It's a long while before they pull apart, and they're both breathless when they do. Derek licks away the tears staining Stiles' cheeks and Stiles offers a wet little laugh in return.

"My family," Derek tells him, and that's shocking enough on its own, without him even continuing, "used to call me that."

"Der?"

"Yeah. How did you?"

"I don't- it just. It felt right."

And then they're kissing again.

* * *

" _That's_ what they said? _Every time_?"

Stiles is incredulous. How? _How_ is this his life?

"I think so?" Derek sounds a little unsure. They're in the loft again, both of them banging their heads against any and all books Deaton, Peter, Lydia, and their various mystical connections were willing to offer. The puppies are half-distracting as fuck, playing around, and half-seriously trying to help them even though they can't seem to get a grip on the problem. Stiles has explained it to Peter, _Peter_ , of all people, at least fifteen times, but it keeps slipping out of his mind as soon as it connects.

Peter is... surprisingly frustrated in the face of this, which would be funny under any other circumstances.

Erica is too busy cackling and leering at them to be helpful, because, apparently, _they smell_. Isaac is kind of just side-eying them and furiously texting the hell out of Scott, which. Yeah, Stiles will deal with that later. Boyd is. Quiet? Helping, anyway. He's helping. Lydia dropped off the books she had to offer, grabbed Jackson, and left. Scott and Ally are off honeymooning together or something.

Peter did manage to growl out "Perception filter," before he lost his train of thought again at one point, and that. Actually makes sense. Especially when Stiles had learned his dad hadn't even _freaked out_ in the face of whatever that was last night. Although he was still miffed this morning about being kept in the dark so long, and he wishes his son would just stay out of it and stay safe, but Stiles had said:

" _You_ aren't safe. You have the means and a way to protect and defend the people, the _place_ you love. These are my people, this is my place, and I may not have the means yet but I _will_. You can't stop me from protecting them, you can't keep me from them, and you certainly can't keep me safe forever."

"No," his dad had agreed, "but I wish with every ounce of my being I could."

"I know."

"You really love them, don't you?"

"Yes. Yeah, I do."

And that had been the end of that.

So, now, he's sitting with at least fourteen books opened to various pages all around him, notebook in his lap, pen twisting through his fingers, and he is...

"I'm _Kenny_!"

"You're what?"

"I'm Kenny," he hisses, "from fucking South Park, what the fuck?"

"South Par-" "No. No, don't even. I am responsible for your reintroduction to pop culture, Der, and we're not even _close_ to there."

Peter raises his eyebrows at the name whilst something, inexplicably, softens in his little piece of the tangled Pack-Bonds cluster. Huh.

"So, okay, what kind of perception filter makes people damn whoever was responsible for the death in front of them, and then seem to forget that that person existed enough to die in the first place? Even if that 'forgetting' part is only temporary, and the death is rectified before they have a chance to question it?"

Everyone is staring at him now, they all (with the exception of Peter, who just seems curious) look a little sick. And the sick look isn't _stopping_.

"That's staying? You're keeping that in those noggins of yours? Huh. So maybe talking about the perception filter itself instead of the thing it's filtering out negates it?"

"That would narrow it down extremely," Peter muses.

Boyd is actually the first to ask, out loud, "Who died?"

"Me." Stiles tells them, and then they're all back to blank, confused, adorable puppy slates, jesus. He groans.

"Oh my god."

* * *

He gets strangled to death in the middle of the living room by an invisible force, yet again, which gives proof to that theory, and he dies in Derek's arms again, which gives a little proof to another that he hadn't even noticed he was thinking.

When he wakes up, Derek is cuddled up behind him again, an open, raw, seeping wound, nuzzling into his neck and scenting like he can't stop or help himself and, Stiles thinks, he probably _can't_. They snuggle, they kiss, Derek leaps out of the window and Stiles walks out the front door.

The weekend is over, time to face _school_ , which may well be more terror inducing than the death he'll be given at the end of the day.

Ah, he shouldn't have worried about it. Drunk driver takes care of that, cool. Except he's pretty sure he's gonna miss a test, fuck.

He wakes up, head crushed into Derek's chest, and thinks he would be able to get used to this, waking up next to him, were it not for what precedes the waking.

They really need to break this fucking curse.

* * *

Three weeks, three weeks and Scott hasn't asked him if he's okay or why he's worried or why he looks like shit or why he smells like Derek all the time, although he has dropped by to play CoD and be perplexed-unnoticing when Stiles chokes to death in front of him.

Stiles has long since learned that he doesn't always die in Derek's arms and he's a little sad for it, because this way? It's so much more fucking lonely.

Scott moons over Allison and either ignores or doesn't care or, more likely, is entirely oblivious to any other goings-on. And that's alright, Stiles thinks, Scott didn't even notice when he got captured and tortured by Gerard Argent, barely even noticed that Stiles was the one who broke two of Derek's cubs out along with himself. Derek's asked, of course, but the pups, thankfully, take Stiles' lead, and since no one has told him, he's waiting quietly about it now.

Derek's Pack all seem worried for him, they went from jeering (Erica), disgusted and vaguely curious (Isaac, Jackson), understanding (Boyd, Lydia), and amused and, oddly enough, _highly_ accepting (Peter) of Stiles and Derek's fragile budding relationship to exceedingly concerned for Stiles' and Derek's state of mind (all of them).

It would be so much easier if they could just _remember_.

But they all seem to notice something _bad_ is happening, and that it's caused by an outside force, and that there's a _reason_ why the two are spending all of their free time researching the hell out of death curses and perception filters and trying to find blaenatem amongst, well, anything.

And so, even unknowing and uncomprehending the why, they help.

Even Allison has asked a few times what's up, though she's almost always swept away by Scott before he can tell her.

Stiles is beginning to think that, perception filter or not, his best friend wouldn't notice his death. The thought is like a stab in the gut and he feels awful and wrong-footed for the rest of the school day. He isn't even surprised to find the Pack flanking him in the halls, during classes, Peter and Derek waiting for him by his jeep at the end of it. He just falls into them and drags them- whether they like it or not (Jackson)- into a huge group hug in the school parking lot.

* * *

"Hey," Lydia says, tossing a book at him. Derek catches it easily mid-air before it finishes its trajectory toward his face, "you were looking for 'blaenatem', right?"

"Yes! Yeah, did you?"

"That's some old Gypsy book I found in the attic of the lake-house, it's all about weird death and sickness curses, I saw that word come up a few times and decided you might-" "Totally, yes! Thank you! You are a goddess of everything good and right in the world!"

"Oh? Does that mean Derek's within my dominion?"

Derek makes a vaguely threatening growl in the back of his throat as Stiles starts flipping through the book eagerly.

"Yes! Yep, oh my god, she _found_ it! She found it! I might not have to die tomorrow! Someone hug her, I'm too busy."

To everyone's utter shock and Peter's absolute delight, it's Derek of all people who complies. But Stiles isn't too surprised, because the hope soaring through the bond between both of them is kind of worth _all_ the hugs.

* * *

The spell in and of itself isn't hard, because the curse itself was meant to strangle a werewolf, and it wasn't even that _strong_ , it was the perception filter _paired_ with it, meant to reveal the death at the most strategic moment, that was. But, nevertheless, no one is meant to survive it. The only reason Stiles had is because it backfired, horribly, because of his Spark, the perception filter wonkily becoming a bad luck charm, the death negating death over and over again.

It's like two magnets, repelling each other, his magic repelled the witches, and then the curse slid, misfired, and screwed him six ways to sunday in the process.

Derek managed to evade the perception filter simply by being in his bubble during the time of his first death.

So _breaking_ the curse is easy. Waiting, after, to see if it worked? That's the hard part.

* * *

Stiles had grinned at him after he'd fully purified himself, eyes still a shocking lavender, and declared that he was magic and that that? Was awesome.

He then proceeded to drag all of the werewolves into a game of poker because he was too restless to wait this out alone and too daunted to believe that anything could _really_ be that easy.

Stiles is surprisingly good at playing poker against werewolves, Peter was kind of smugly proud and Derek... was okay with that.

By the end of it, Stiles had a little over 300 bucks, two watches, a shoe, and a ceramic figurine of a squid.

Movies were suggested, Jackson still whinging plaintively about his loss, and Lydia called out for the Notebook. Everyone groaned.

After the Notebook, which they did watch, and Jackson managed to only get a little teary-eyed throughout, whereas Stiles was openly sniffling and cuddling into Derek's side for comfort, which. Was honestly adorable, how could it not be?

They got chinese, watched Iron-Man, then Iron-Man 2, managed to fall asleep all tangled up in each other.

Derek was pleased to be woken up by Stiles, straddling his lap, kissing him senseless.

"I didn't die, Der," he breathes, and he _didn't_.

"Stiles," another kiss, and then another, deeper, "my Stiles."

Stiles laughs breathlessly.

"My Sourwolf."

And Derek thinks, so grateful, so disgustingly happy, maybe things will be okay. Maybe they really will be _okay_.

"Get a room!" Erica calls, and they both laugh against each other's lips.

* * *

The Pack is called by howls and roars out to the Preserve. It's been two and a half months since they broke the curse, a week since Scott finally called him out on smelling too much like Derek for his liking, three days since Scott- _literally_ \- tattled on him to his dad, two days since Scott and Allison broke up, and this is the very first time the Alpha Pack has made a move.

The past few months have been crazy, what with the curse and Derek and Pack. It was fun to find out that his place in Pack hierarchy- as the Alpha's Mate which he is quickly becoming if not already there, _and_ the Pack's Emissary, which was what the whole eye flashing thing was, Peter ended up telling them, mock smug- makes it so that his orders are meant to be heeded in close relativity to their Alpha's, and providing for him is something they _want to do_. The first time Jackson offered Stiles his pretentious high-end protein bar he'd squealed, like a little girl. He's not proud.

They want to touch and scent him and protect, they instinctively preen when he praises them, or provides for/ protects _them_ in turn. The Pack-mom jokes don't even affect him anymore, because it's _awesome_ , and he is _so_ down. He's always loved taking care of people. And, besides, teaching his Pack to be better people through positive reinforcement? It's a beautiful, beautiful thing.

So are puppy piles, Stiles _loves_ the puppy piles. Which is probably how his dad begrudgingly got used to coming home to Derek, Stiles, and all the Beta's curled up in and around each other (even Peter), watching the Notebook. _Again_. And further, became a part of it, because Stiles dragged him into their pile unashamedly. It's also probably how the Sheriff realized who Stiles was so easily and quickly falling in love with. He wasn't extraordinarily happy about it, but Stiles had told him, straight up:

"He's the one who saves my life, I'm the one who saves his. Taking me away from him will not engender my safety. Besides, we aren't going to do anything _naughty_ until I'm legal, for so, so many reasons, not the least of which being _fucking_ Kate. So. And, hey, you're calling him son on the regular, anyway. You're warming up to him, I just know it."

After that, his father had been somewhat mollified.

It's precisely because of this that when Scott came, running his mouth about it all, fully expecting to get Stiles into trouble for it, and protect him from the big bad Alpha in the process, well. Dad had just shaken his head and told him to get out. It was... bittersweet. Validating. Hurtful.

Too much and too little and a friendship slowly breaking apart.

That Allison broke up with Scott the next day, seemingly infuriated with him over something somewhat similar, Stiles had just felt... pity? Maybe, because Scott was alone, now, for the most part, an Omega without even his Anchor.

And Stiles had felt like that many, many times because of Scott.

But now? Now he had his Alpha, his lover, his Mate, he had his Pack, his friends, his _family_ , he had his _dad_. So much more, more to lose, more to hope, more to be freely happy about.

And there was every possibility Scott would go feral soon. The stubborn ass he was, mulish and insubordinate and, and, lost, so lost.

When the roars and howls shook the Preserve, Stiles was worried, of course he was. He exchanged a quick glance with Derek, kissed him on the cheek and then called: "All right, puppies! To the jeep with the lot of you, and to the camaro with the rest- Ah, ah, ah! No fighting, rock-paper-scissors it, c'mon, go, go, go!"

* * *

In a semi-circle before them stand animals, larger than their species should allow for, and all of them canine with the exception of a pure, glossy black lion, fur like twilight and a jaguar, sleek, vicious. There are 12 of them, eyes Alpha red, the felines on the outermost of the semi-circle and then jackal, coyote, dingo, dhole, several foxes and several wolves- but the wolf who stands in the epicenter is undeniably the biggest, most ferocious, and kindest looking. She is smooth elegance, pure white, long tail and wide ears and she is... so fucking _fluffy_.

And then she stalks forward, while the rest stay back, and she shimmers, her fur slides easily away, and with grace that is inhuman and godly she steps forward again in human skin. She is dark, eyes almost black, and freckled with sharp, dark honey all over her naked earthy skin, hair dyed a girlish sort of pale pink, long and curly over her breasts and around her waist. She looks young, she looks older than any of them, but she looks young.

In a voice like rocks and mountains and ash she speaks to them, her words lyrical and poised.

"Alpha Hale, you and your Pack have seen many trials this season. My brothers and sisters and I, we have watched you. You have passed your tests, and now receive your boon.

"The land of the Nemeton is yours to protect and guard, the Pack you have created is yours to command and love, this is your Fate, your burden, and your gift. Do you accept?"

There is no small amount of awe in his voice when he says, "Yes."

"Emissary Stilinski, Alpha Mate, the land of the Nemeton is yours to protect and guard, your Pack and your Alpha are yours to provide love and care for, this is your Fate, your burden, and your gift. Do you accept?"

Stiles is pretty sure his voice is no less wrecked than Derek's was when he says "Yeah, yes. Yep. Totally down for that."

And this lady, ancient and glorious and beautiful, she smiles at him. Like his _mom_ used to. His breath catches, and Derek, knowing something is happening, but not exactly what, laces their fingers together. It's exactly what he needs to ground him.

She goes through this with the rest of them, with slight variations throughout, and they all, even Peter, accept. All of them honored and in wonder at this crazy awesome thing happening to them.

"My children," she says at last, "submit to your Alpha."

And just like that, all but Derek kneel, heads thrown back and throats bared.

"My child," she tells him, "take them as yours."

And Derek, on instinct or something else, something more, something undefinable, Stiles doesn't know, bites them all, not hard enough to bleed but hard enough to bruise, right at the crook of their necks, and scents them, pulling their heads toward him to be scented in turn. The bonds get stronger after that, thicker and more... unbreakable.

"There you are, pups," she says sweetly, "there you all are."

And then she returns to her fur and her snout and her own Pack, and they are left dazed and blissful as the Alpha Pack runs off into the night.

After a long, considering, content silence, Erica finally chirps, decisively, "Boyd, I love you, but that was better than any sex we've ever had."

At least half of them laugh, the rest groan, Peter smirks, Boyd just raises one very judgemental eyebrow, though his eyes, and the feeling he's giving the bond, are amused.

"I'm not even a wolf," Lydia muses, because, yeah, the wolf lady did call them all her children, didn't she?

"Neither am I," Stiles calls out to her, because she is a decent distance away, "but we're Pack!"

And then he shrugs and lifts up the hand holding Derek's to shake it around, as if proving a point. Now Peter's smirking at _him_ , along with a bit of a leer. Stiles rolls his eyes, kisses his mate sound and then calls out: "Who wants to play poker?"

"No!!" "Ugh, Stiles." "You always win, it isn't _fair_." Among other dissenting grumblings can be heard and Stiles just laughs and laughs until he feels muscular arms wrapping around his middle and a stubbled cheek nuzzling into his.

"I love you," Derek says, softly, quiet, secret, between them and raw and honest and miraculous. Stiles knows the other Beta's are still close enough to hear, knows they're only still bickering amongst each other to allow for the illusion of privacy, but he doesn't care. It's somehow perfect, for it to be here, like this, their Pack all around them.

"Yeah," Stiles says, leaning back into the warmth behind him, "I love you, too, Der."


End file.
